When she'd felt the first twinge, Sandy had felt a childish feeling of relief flood through her. Once the baby was out things could go back to how they used to be; her body, her life, her future could once again belong solely to her. She was sick of sharing herself with the baby, having to think about him constantly and put his needs above her own. It made Sandy's skin crawl to think of the baby growing inside her every minute of everyday, living and feeding off her, slowly growing in size and capability until that fateful moment where it would reveal itself to the world.
There were several occasions during the past few months that Sandy had hated the baby, especially after her bump had become too big for people to ignore. It wasn't bad enough that the baby had taken everything Sandy had ever known and yanked it all away from her, now it wanted the whole world to know of it's existence and Sandy's shame.
The pain hadn't been so bad at first; no more than a slight tightening around her middle that had fooled her into thinking she could handle this thing they called labour. People had talked to her about it: doctors, nurses, midwives and other expectant mothers had all relayed facts, figures and horror stories with their faces twisted into expressions of either patronising sympathy or unmasked indifference. Eventually their faces had begun to blur together and Sandy had stopped listening. It was ironic, she thought one afternoon, that all these people should be talking at her when the people she really needed to talk to had all slipped away from her.
Her mother, her grandmother, her friends, her siblings, her Sodapop…
She'd lost so much and in return had gained a disgusting swollen stomach that bulged over her waistband, distorting her body into an unrecognisable mass of criss-crossed veins and over-stretched skin and a new, scary, unwanted life as 'Sandy-and-baby', stretching out in front of her bleak and lonely forever and ever.
Sometimes she'd catch her reflection in shop windows and be forced to stop and stare at the stranger staring back at her. She didn't know this person, had no desire to either, yet it was all that remained of her ruined life.
After that terrible visit to the doctor nine months ago, everything she'd ever done or been or wanted - like the time she'd won the regional spelling bee in 6th grade, or the first time her and Soda had danced together, the sweet sound of My Girl by The Temptations weaving around them and binding them together - didn't matter anymore. It was so unfair, being forced to play a game when you didn't understand the rules and no one had told you how high the stakes were.
As the hours slid by the twinges intensified until they morphed into torrents of agony that swept over her relentlessly. At first they had been possible to navigate, the intervals in between each contraction giving her precious minutes to catch her breath. But the minutes shrunk into seconds and each new wave of pain that washed over her was longer and more intense than the last. Somewhere in the back of her mind Sandy felt an urgent and terrifying sense that time was running out.
"Too young," the senior midwife has said when Sandy had first arrived on the ward, shaking her head and judging Sandy with one fleeting glance. Before that would've made Sandy angry, back in Tulsa she had made a special effort to prove to people she was more than just a 'greaser girl', but now she was used to it. Besides, all that hard work hadn't counted for anything in the end, not once the tell-tale bump had began to show underneath her blouse.
And now, as contraction after contraction pulsed though her, Sandy felt too young. She wanted more than anything to be back at school, cooped up in a stuffy classroom surrounded by the smiling, carefree faces of her friends and with the familiar feeling of her pen in her hand. Sandy had always liked school, not because she was clever, she wasn't really; but because everyone knew their place and eventually, whether they liked it or not, slotted into their designated roles. Sandy's role had been affirmed when she started dating Sodapop Curtis, her reputation as the luckiest, most enviable girl in school pushed up those final few notches. It made Sandy feel funny to imagine what her reputation was now.
People were crowding around her, making her feel trapped and uncomfortable. Words Sandy didn't fully understand bounced of the walls - "Dilated…", "Breeched…", "Placenta…" - and even amidst the pain of yet another contraction she felt a familiar burn of embarrassment. She was handling this badly, doing something wrong. Sandy was vaguely aware of someone placing a damp cloth on her forehead and reached out for that someone, needing something solid to hold on to, to keep her afloat when the next contraction pulsed through her. When her fingers grasped at nothing but air she let her hand fall back against the scratchy hospital sheets.
Other women on the ward had husbands with them, holding their hands and stroking their hair, their presence meaning so much more than they'd ever realise. Sandy tried to imagine Sodapop here, his oil-stained jeans and reckless grin standing out in stark contrast against the white hospital walls and serious faces of the midwives. She wondered what he would have thought of her, watching as she writhed around on the hard hospital bed, hair clinging to her sweaty brow, enormous stomach and breasts heaving as she tried to ride out the pain. He probably would have thought she was disgusting - she was sure everyone else did.
He would have been here though, if she'd asked him to. They might even have been married by now, if she had accepted his proposal. It would be the three of them, rather than just two. Two wasn't enough, you couldn't be a real family with just two. But she couldn't accept his offer, couldn't drag Soda down with her when he had his brothers to think of and a whole lifetime ahead of him. Losing her own life was bad enough, she couldn't be responsible for taking Soda's as well.
So Sandy was alone; alone in a room full of people. Every so often she would catch a glimpse of her grandmother standing in the corner of the room, rosary clutched in her hand and her head bowed in prayer. Sandy wished she would stop talking to God and talk to her instead, the rejection insinuated by the heavy silences that had dominated Sandy's stay with the old woman suddenly seemed too much to bear on top of everything else.
Maybe I'm dying, Sandy thought. She had always been taught that God was good and merciful but if that were true she wouldn't be lying here, alone, giving birth to a child while still a child herself. Any minute now the pain would get too much, her pelvic bones would snap under the strain, her tired body finally giving up the fight. Her soul would float up to Heaven, leaving her broken heart and broken body far behind her, a small screaming baby the only remaining evidence of her broken life. Maybe that was the price she must pay, the ultimate punishment for a crime she didn't realise she'd committed until it was too late. She hadn't meant for it to happen, hadn't realised his intentions until…
"Don't push, don't push honey. Just breathe" In her delirious, pain-filled mind Sandy clung to the word honey, the only affectionate term to be directed her way since this whole mess had begun. Even though her body was telling her to push she resisted the urge, the last time she'd listened to her body was that warm July night nine months ago and look where that had gotten her. So she breathed and she hurt and she cried, screamed and pleaded until suddenly something rushed out from between her legs, slipping and sliding into the nurses waiting arms. It happened so quickly Sandy couldn't even register that it was over and that her baby had been born until the nurse stood and began to carry the bundle away.
"Wait, that's my baby! I want my baby!" Sandy shouted, panic rising and swirling around her. She tried to get up but someone pushed her back against the pillows and held her there, the small bony hands surprisingly strong against her shoulders.
"Hush now, they're just getting him cleaned up." Sandy felt her Grandmother's rosary brush against her chin as she tucked the sheets tightly around her. "You get some sleep and we'll both be here when you wake up."
"It's a boy." Sandy breathed as she slipped into sleep, her Grandmother's cross dancing and swaying back and forth in front of her eyes the last image before she shut her eyes.
When Sandy awoke she felt confused and disorientated. The bed she was laying in was much higher than her bed at home and the mountain of pillows propping her up made her feel like she was marooned up there. Somewhere down the corridor she heard a baby crying faintly and everything suddenly came flooding back. With a sick feeling of dread she realised her room was silent.
Shouldn't her baby be crying too?
Maybe they'd already come and taken him away, decided that she was too young and couldn't cope. Sudden and unexpected tears came into Sandy's eyes and she choked out a sob.
"So you've finally woken up then." The voice startled Sandy and she turned in the direction it had come from. Standing by the window with her back to the room was her Grandmother. She was hunched over, cradling something in her arms. She slowly turned around and regarded Sandy coolly. "I suppose you'll be wanting to hold him?"
Sandy found herself unable to speak, so instead just nodded and held out her arms. Her Grandmother walked over to her and carefully placed the bundle into her arms. Sandy peered down at the baby, taking in his small button nose, pouty pink mouth, tiny sea-shell ears and big blue eyes.
"He's got my eyes," she whispered, amazed she had created something so perfect.
"No he doesn't. All newborn babies have blue eyes." Sandy chose to ignore her Grandmother, understanding that the moment they'd shared after the baby's birth had passed and now things were back to how they were before. The baby butted his head against Sandy's chest and began to mew like a cat. Sandy looked up at her Grandmother in alarm. "Well feed him you silly girl!"
Three hours later Sandy lay back against her pillows completely exhausted. The baby had needed feeding, then changing, then he'd cried whenever she tried to put him down in the crib the hospital had given her. Then he'd wanted feeding again and had bought some milk back up until he'd finally fallen asleep against her Grandmother's shoulder. Sandy felt a mixture of anger and helplessness - this wasn't fair, it was too hard. She couldn't do this everyday…not forever. For the second time that day Sandy felt hot tears sting her cheeks.
She turned away as her Grandmother leant down to put the baby in his crib, determined not to let her see her cry.
"This baby needs a name." She declared, picking up her coat and hat. "A good strong name like William or Jack."
Sandy watched as she buttoned up her coat and placed her hat neatly on her head. Please don't leave me, she pleaded silently, please don't leave me too.
"But never mind, we can make some lists when I get back. I'm just going to run home and gather some things together. I think I'll stay the night with you, just to keep you both company. Is there anything you need?" Sandy shook her head, unable to speak. "I'll be back in about an hour then. Don't forget to feed him."
Then she was gone, leaving Sandy alone once again. Except she wasn't really alone, not now that they baby was lying beside her quietly sucking it's thumb. Sandy lent her head back and stared up at the ceiling. Listening closely to the baby's soft breathing, she carefully smoothed her hands down over her stomach. Before the birth it had been firm and protruding and before that, now a different lifetime ago, it had once been smooth and flat. Now it was soft and squishy, neither one extreme or the other. Sandy thought she quite liked it like that.
As she stared out of the hospital window at the blue sky separated in nine, neat squares she thought about Sodapop. A small part of her had wanted to ask her Grandmother to bring paper with her so she could write him. But then the baby began to grizzle and Sandy knew he needed feeding. She carefully lifted him from his crib and positioned him in the crook of her arm, the motion already beginning to feel familiar. As she stroked her baby's soft downy hair, Sandy placed Sodapop, Tulsa and high school back into her memories where they now belonged.
What's a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this?
This is a repost, but I didn't like the original version too much so I've rewritten it. Many parts are the same but I've added some bits and improved on the editing and spacing. I've also taken out the lyrics to "Sweetheat Like You" by Bob Dylan apart from the title and last line, I just didn't like the way the lyrics broke up the text.
So let me know what you think ok? Reviews make me happy!